


Hollandaise is an Emulsion (Not Emotion)

by serpentinerose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel is shy, Chef!Castiel, Grumpy Dean Winchester, Jo is a sly fox, Kind of a Coffeeshop!AU, M/M, but more like shitty roadside diner!AU, dean is smitten, kind of subdued trauma, mechanic!Dean, we stan Jo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 21:46:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20316496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serpentinerose/pseuds/serpentinerose
Summary: Dean loves travelling with his father and his brother, until one day, he doesn't anymore.Life is OK for the moment, but that's only because he's worked hard on making sure it is so. He likes everything predictable, orderly—mundane, even. He orders the same thing at the same diner every time, and he knows the staff, and he can expect anything that could possibly happen.Until one day, the chef at his favorite diner resigns.





	Hollandaise is an Emulsion (Not Emotion)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a one-shot, which is immensely unsatisfying, I know, but I really don't trust myself to write multi-chaptered fics anymore, so think of this as a cute preslash fluffy piece and forgive me. 
> 
> This was also written 4 years ago, and I just "finished" it up as an attempt to procrastinate on actual work.

Dean used to travel. When his high school friends gossiped about future road trips across the country, he used to scoff until the group, wide-eyed and awed, gathered around as he grandly recounted the adventures that he’d had with Dad and Sammy. Road trips weren’t exciting because their little family was always on the road, his dad flickering in and out of odd jobs after mom’s death, burying his grief in liquor and the mindless drone of the Impala’s machines over the heartland of America.

But that’s over with; he’d made sure of that. Dad had died five years ago in a horrific car accident that landed all three of them in the hospital—John Winchester was pronounced DOA while his two sons suffered major, but recoverable, injuries. Drunk, reckless driving, they said, waving a report of the alcohol level in his blood. A shame, but at least he didn’t kill anyone else.

So Bobby had taken the lost boys in, Dean barely eighteen at the time, full of grief with a broken leg that never healed quite right, and little Sam, fourteen and ridiculously stubborn even all bruised and cut up—he took them in, clothed them and fed them like the children he never had, and it’d been a quiet, unassuming life for them all in Sioux Falls ever since.

Until Sam had to leave for Stanford.

Dean understands. Really, he does. He’d known Sam would never be content with anything less; the boy is a genius. Dean likes to think that he’s quite clever and proficient at most things, but when it comes to academics, he knows that Sammy’s got him beat. So it was fitting, Stanford, and not in the least unexpected. He’s just wished that time would stretch a little longer, for Sammy to stay the little kid that followed him around incessantly, asking ridiculous questions that he could never find the answer to.

He just wants his little brother back again.

It’s only him and Bobby in Sioux Falls now. After finishing high school, Dean decided to become a mechanic, following his dad and Bobby’s footsteps. It’s a nice life, he thinks, fixing cars. Bobby’s junkyard is always filled to the brim, a graveyard of metal scraps, in a way, and yet more like a garden if he really thinks about it. There’s so much potential for growth and rebirth; there’s room for second chances, and room for change. He likes that, likes the rush of accomplishment that comes with looking at his patchwork creations. 

The first car he ever fixed on his own was the Impala, to the surprise of absolutely no one. It was his second real home, those dozen-odd years on the road. It was the one constant in his life when everything else just itched to change—Dad turned into a whiskey-chugging, bitter old man, and Sammy suddenly gained the ability to string together coherent syllables—but the Impala remained the same, a shining onyx beast, sleek and unstoppable, until that day when it wasn’t.

But he’d fixed it up. He’d fixed  _ her _ up, because the Impala is his baby now, passed on to him by rights of inheritance. He rebuilt her from the ground, smoothing out the dents on her rusty exterior and replacing the engines, outfitting her in smooth leather and wood until she gleamed black and brilliant in her former glory, fully functional and fully  _ his _ . 

Bobby has looked at him that day with this indefinable expression, and Dean still doesn’t know entirely what it meant.

* * *

Dean doesn’t travel anymore. Not because he doesn’t have the time for it—well, okay, he doesn’t, but that’s not the main issue here—but because it just seems wrong, on a very instinctive level. Traveling has always been a family tradition for him, with Dad on the wheel and him and Sammy all curled up on the backseat, tiny, roughened boys’ hands twirling with pieces of Legos and tin soldiers, their baby-fine hair bleached golden in the sunlight. And when they grew older, Dean abandoned the backseat in favor of calling shotgun and feeling so grown up, so mature next to his father, all gangly loose limbs hanging from the window, caressed by the wind and the rain.

Traveling would lose all meaning if he doesn’t do it with Sam and Dad, and he can’t do that anymore, can’t he, since Dad isn’t coming back, and neither is Sam.

Dean doesn’t travel anymore. 

* * *

Dean likes The Roadhouse. It’s one of his favorite haunts in Sioux Falls, owned by an old family friend. It’s remarkable, sometimes, how many people his dad knew in this tiny, off-the-map town, considering their family originated from Kansas. But Ellen, the restaurant owner, knows John Winchester and Bobby very well, and he’s been frequenting her place for as long as he can remember, from way back then, when they were still traipsing around the country without a care in the world.

The Roadhouse is quite a remarkable place. Ellen first started it as a stragglers’ bar, all dark and dingy and musty and exactly the environment you don’t want your kids to be around, unless you’re John Winchester. But over the years, she’s turned it into a rather classy, family-oriented diner, modeled after those French bistros with tiny, wooden tables and a full-fledged bar in the front. On days when he just can’t be bothered to cook, Dean always stops by, plops himself down in a corner, and orders a whiskey on the rocks to go with his customary piece of apple pie, because hey, he’s an adult, and adults can make bad decisions for themselves.

It’s one of those days now; dealing with anxious customers all day isn’t good for his nerves, and God knows he doesn’t have much patience to begin with. He pulls the car up around the parking lot, chooses a shady spot, and switches off the key with such violence that he has to make a mental note never to do that again lest he hurts his baby. 

God, he really needs a drink.

The diner isn’t that busy today, as it never is on Thursdays. Jo, Ellen’s daughter and one of his only friends, gives him a wan smile as he passes her on the way in. “Bit early, Dean,” she calls out, deftly lifting up a rack of condiments and wiping his regular table clean with a yellow washcloth. “It’s only 4:30. Shouldn’t you still be at the shop?”

“It’s 5 o’clock somewhere, sweetie,” he retorts, pulling out a chair with a loud scrape that earns him a dirty look from Jo. “If I stayed there any longer, you would have to call the police on me.” He looks around the mostly empty diner, save for a few brooding middle-aged men on the counter. Travelers, he can tell from the exhausted slumps that usually come from a long day of driving. 

He’s only known it too well.

“The regular, then?” Jo asks, not even bothering to pull out her notepad.

“Yeah,” he sighs, slumping forward to rest his face on the sides of his upturned hands. “Actually, no. I’m starving. I’ll have a burger and fries instead. And beer.”

“Bacon?”

“Of course bacon, why’d you even ask?” he snaps and immediately feels guilty about it. “Sorry, Jo. Long day.”

Jo’s smooth fingers reach out and gently squeeze his shoulder in reply, so he knows he’s forgiven. “Coming right up.”

* * *

The diner’s food has been consistently good—Ash is a genius on the grill—but something about today’s meal just sticks out in particular. Maybe they changed the recipe for the sauce, he thinks absently as he chews through another mouthful of juicy ground beef and crispy bacon, all drenched in melted, gooey cheese. And  _ urgh _ , no pickles, thank God. That shit ruins everything.

He briefly considers ordering another burger, but then he realizes that there is still a full plate of seasoned sweet potato fries and a mountain of ketchup in front of him and resigns himself to indulging in his burger craze another day. 

“Excuse me, sir?” A man approaches his table, clad in a white apron over a prim black button-down shirt, but all he can see is messy dark hair and impossibly blue eyes and a faint outline of stubble over a strong jawline. And that voice, like smoke over wet asphalt—he’s so distracted that he almost misses what the man’s trying to say to him. 

“Yeah?” he chokes out, feeling the piece of beef sliding down his throat in totally the wrong way. “Can I help you, man?”

The stranger smiles sheepishly, and immediately Dean thinks of those quiet kids in high school who are always made fun of for being bookish nerds. He gets that vibe from this man, too. 

“My name is Castiel,” the stranger says, and Dean’s stomach lurches at the return of  _ the voice _ . “I’m the new chef here. I just wanted to ask if you find the meal satisfactory.”

The new c-… what? Ellen and Jo never told him that they were getting a new chef. “What happened to Ash?” he blurts out, not answering the stranger’s—Castiel—question at all.

A small, puzzled frown appears on Castiel’s face. “I don’t know. I was hired very recently, and I was only told that this place needs a chef, since the old one left.” His tone is apologetic and vaguely confused, as if he doesn’t know if he’s done something wrong inadvertently, and wow, Dean feels like such an asshole. 

Great job, Winchester.

“Ash probably just got bored or something,” he hurriedly replies as if to assuage the guy’s discomfort. “And I love the food, man. Best burger I’ve ever had, honestly. You’ve done great. Hey, you should tell Ellen to give you a raise!” 

That seems to do the trick; tension seems to leech out of Castiel’s frame, and an infectious smile tugs at his lips, and Dean finds it hard not to smile with him. “Thank you, sir. I hope you enjoy the rest of the meal,” Castiel says, and before Dean knows it, he’s off to another table, the sound of his ridiculously deep voice muted by distance.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there, staring at the back of Castiel’s head as the guy makes his round around the diner, but he knows that his burger’s grown cold and his fries quite soggy in the mean time. And when Jo comes around, she only gives him a knowing smirk, and it’s not any less annoying on her face than it was on Sam’s.

“Didn’t think he was your type,” she chirps and refills his beer—Ellen believes in house brews, and the place is devoid of any commercial brand. “Cute, though, isn’t he? Came into town a few weeks ago to visit a cousin or something and ended up staying—no idea why, wouldn’t tell us. Good thing, too, since Ash just up and left, saying something about going back to school? I don’t know. But Castiel’s a sweetheart. Mom likes him, too.”

“What’s he like to work with?” he asks, though he can hazard a good guess from the way the guy’s face brightens and flushes with restrained pleasure at the customers’ praises.

God forbids, did Jo just giggle? “He’s pretty quiet, actually. Keeps to himself, but really funny once you get him to open up a little. But I think he was raised under a rock or something because he doesn’t get a lot of my jokes.” 

He refrains from commenting on Jo’s prowess as a comedian and immediately regrets it when she opens her mouth again. “Hey, when do you think you’re going to ask for his number?”

“Oh, shut it,” Dean grumbles and pushes his fries around, gaze still stuck on Castiel’s smiling face and a strange, fluttery feeling sitting heavy in his chest. 

* * *

Dean comes back again the next day. It’s not an unheard-of occurrence, since long days at work have a tendency to come in endless strings, and unwinding at home with Bobby sometimes only makes him more likely to snap. 

It’s a little past seven when he pushes through the door, so the place is already bustling with people. Jo flits from table to table, taking orders and refilling drinks and laying down steaming plates, and Ellen is at the hostess stance trying to convince a family of five that  _ she’s terribly sorry, but it’s a Friday night and it’s very difficult to get a seat without a reservation, but if you wait another twenty minutes a place will surely clear up.  _

_ Great _ , he groans.  _ Exactly just what I needed to make a crappy day worse _ . All he wants right now is to sink down on a padded seat in a corner somewhere, nurse a drink, push his food around for a bit, and watch the happy families and their kids share a nice dinner out. People-watching is totally his thing; it’s nice to know that somewhere out there in the world, people are actually enjoying their life with their loved ones. It reminds him that there’s some meaning in staying alive, after all. And he is always a sucker for kids.

“Dean!” Jo appears suddenly at his side, out of breath and damp around the neck, and there’s a dark smudge on her cheek that he cannot resist reaching out to wipe away. She beams and drags him by the hand. “Come on, you’re lucky; your usual table just vacated, and it can’t seat any more than two anyway. Come on!”

Soon enough, he finds himself at his regular table, a laminated menu in front of him and a glass of ice water on his right, and oh God he could marry Jo at that very moment, if only she would have him. He knows exactly what he wanted, but he makes a show of looking through the menu anyway, attentive as can be. Nothing new, but then again, he expects that. Nothing ever changes in small diners in little towns.

He orders his usual. Jo makes a show of writing down his order with a flourish, and he rolls his eyes in exasperation. “You know, Castiel is a really good cook. You should have the special instead.”

“What’s the special?”

“Eggs benedict. With real hollandaise — you know, not the stuff you get from a powder.” Jo brightens at his interest and adds, “and you can get it with smoked salmon, too, if you’d like.”

Dean scrunches up his nose in disgust. “What the heck, Jo? You turned the diner into some frou-frou brunch place for no reason?”

Jo shakes her head, a fond smile on her face. “We still serve everything that we usually do. It’s just something new. You’ve been here so often that I thought maybe it was time for a change, but hey, it’s up to you.” She whispers conspiratorially, “Plus, I think Castiel ordered way too much smoked salmon, so we have to use it up, you know.”

Dean hesitates. 

“So, you’ll take some smoked salmon eggs benedict, right?” Jo smirks, satisfied with her own astuteness.

“Don’t even start.” But he orders it anyway.  
  



End file.
